Page 47 of Stealing His Cupcake (Stockholm Syndrome for the Win #2)

Amy

Something is bothering Wyatt. My first reaction is to launch a deep examination of everything I’ve said or done in the past few days to figure out what might’ve set him off and start apologizing preemptively, but I hold back.

As strange as my broken self-confidence finds it, I don’t think I’m the reason for Wyatt’s bad mood.

He said he made a mistake earlier today.

Probably during his “errand”. At this point, I have no doubt that his “errand” meant he was off to kill someone, and my imagination is running wild imagining how it could have gone wrong.

Did someone see him? Did he leave evidence behind?

Did he fail to kill the target and is now in trouble for breaking the contract?

I doubt kill contracts come with penalties for late delivery.

Is a client angry with him, or is the police after him?

It’s funny how I don’t even worry about the fact that he probably killed someone this morning, or at least tried to.

I should be appalled, right? Killing people is wrong.

I think everyone agrees on that. Except I don’t really care for people.

Most of them, anyway. I’m more worried about something happening to Wyatt, and that’s definitely not something I’ll be discussing with Miranda, because I’m pretty sure it would get me to jail.

Since I doubt they’d let me share a cell with Wyatt, prison is out of the question.

For either of us. I’m not sure how convincing I’d be if I had to lie to the police, but I’m more than willing to try if necessary.

Wyatt says he doesn’t need my help right now, but there are other ways a good wife can support her husband.

I already made sure his stomach is full and now I’ll help him unwind by sucking his brain out of his body through his cock.

Craig might’ve been a controlling asshole with a hidden dark side I’d rather not think about, but if he taught me one thing, aside from “always doubt yourself”, it’s how to give an excellent blowjob.

Wyatt barely let me touch him all week. Our sex, while amazing, was always about my pleasure.

Only after I’ve come several times does he let himself come too, either inside of me or on me.

Never by my hand, let alone mouth. He told me he didn’t marry me so I’d give him blowjobs, but to spoil and cherish me, and while that’s incredibly sweet—also probably a miracle—it ends today.

I want to be the one to make him come. Not because I think I have to, as his captive or his wife, but because the thought of my sexy, badass hitman falling apart under my hands and tongue turns me on more than anything.

I will give him a damned blowjob today.

My bravado flees as I finish my lunch. Even though Wyatt’s probably already waiting for me in the bedroom, I busy myself putting leftovers away and cleaning up, suddenly anxious about facing him.

I can’t actually demand he let me give him a blowjob, can I?

What if he doesn’t like blowjobs? What if he thinks I only want to do it to bite his cock off or something?

What if he’s disgusted by the idea of my mouth on him?

That thought makes me pause because, obviously, it’s nonsense.

Wyatt kisses me all the time. We’ve done everything from chaste cheek pecks over slow and soft kisses to sensual, deeply passionate exploration of each other’s mouths until we’re gasping for breath.

Wyatt isn’t disgusted by me, and I’m being stupid.

Worse, I’m letting Craig’s poison spoil my excitement, and that is just not going to happen.

Wyatt isn’t Craig. If he doesn’t like something, he’ll tell me without putting me down. I can do this. I hope.

Wyatt’s sitting on the bed, wearing only a towel wrapped loosely around his hips. He’s scowling at his phone but sets it aside the moment he notices me, his scowl transforming into a bright smile. “Amy.”

Wringing my hands, I take a hesitant step closer. “Hi.” Oh my god, did I just say hi to him? I want to slap myself. “I mean… I’m here.”

Jesus effing Christ, who taught you to flirt? A cave troll?

“I can see that,” Wyatt teases, his smile softening. “Come here, Amy.”

Grateful that he’s taking charge, I cross the rest of the distance between us and stand between his legs. “I’m sorry I’m so awkward. I’m not really dominant. Like, at all. I just wanted to…”

Running his hands up my thighs, Wyatt squeezes my ass and hums appreciatively. “Yes? What do you want, Amy?”

As much as I try to rein in my insecurities, they keep rearing their ugly heads.

“You never let me touch you,” I all but whisper, grateful that Wyatt is nuzzling my belly and not looking at me.

“Do you not like to be touched?” Perhaps it’s a control thing.

Living a dangerous life, maybe Wyatt doesn’t feel comfortable letting himself be vulnerable with someone else?

Or perhaps the problem is, as per usual, in me. “Do you not want me to touch you?”

Rearing back, Wyatt looks at me with alarm.

“What? No! It’s not like that at all, Amy.

I just…” Trailing off, he rubs the bridge of his nose before seeking my look once again.

“I didn’t want you to think that I married you just so I’d have a ready hole to put my cock in.

Someone to suck me off while I’m watching football with a beer in my hand. ”

“You don’t watch football,” I point out, slightly settled by his explanation.

Not satisfied, though, because he’s just repeating what he already told me.

“Did it ever occur to you I might want to suck you off? I-I feel like… You do everything for me and I feel like I— Not like I have to earn it but… I want to give something back, something to… Ugh. I’m not sure how to explai n it.

” Groaning, I hide my flaming face in my hands.

“Could I just suck your cock? Please?” God, this is so embarrassing!

Tugging on my elbow, Wyatt tries to move my hands away from my face, but I don’t let him.

“Amy. Amy, please look at me. Come on, cupcake. Eyes on me.” The sharp command works better than soft words.

Peeking between my fingers, I see Wyatt’s lightly furrowed brows.

“You want to suck my cock?” he asks matter-of-factly, as if we’re discussing dinner plans.

At my fervent nod, he continues, “Really want it? Not because you’re afraid or feel like you have to do it? ”

“Yes, I really want it!” Embarrassment shifting into exasperation, I huff out a breath and plant my palms on my hips, frowning down at my husband.

“I know I have a ton of issues, but I’m still capable of deciding things for myself.

I’m not afraid of you, Wyatt, and I don’t feel like I have to suck you off in exchange for food or something equally stupid.

You’re my husband and I want to make you happy.

Jesus, I never thought it would be this hard to talk a guy into a blowjob. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

Wyatt laughs. “You are quite something when you get all worked up, cupcake. I apologize if I made you feel unwanted. My cock is, of course, at your full disposal whenever you feel like sucking on it. Should I lie down for you or stay like this?”

“Um…” My heart rate speeds up for entirely wrong reasons. Why is he giving me options? I don’t know the right answer! What if I pick wrong?

“Amy? Would you rather I was in charge?”

“Yes!” I blurt out before he even finishes the sentence. “Yes, please. Just tell me what to do.” Use me, I want to say, but don’t dare to.

As if reading my mind, Wyatt stands up. The dynamic between us shifts as he now towers over me.

Resting his hand on the side of my neck, he pierces me with a look so intense a shiver runs up my spine.

“Is this what you want?” His thumb caresses the front of my throat.

“Do you want to be controlled? Dominated?” Tightening his grip, he whispers, “Afraid? ”

“Y-yes,” I manage to stutter out through my heaving breaths.

“All of that. Please.” At that moment, I don’t care how desperate I must sound or how unnatural my desires might be.

All I can think about is Wyatt’s heavy gaze on me and his hand on my throat.

Not quite restricting my air flow, but a firm reminder that he could.

The corner of his mouth curls up. “Be careful what you wish for, cupcake. Strip.”

The order carries so much authority I’m scrambling to obey without a second’s hesitation.

As I pull the dress over my head, Wyatt hums in appreciation.

“You came prepared, it seems,” he comments on my matching lingerie.

The lacy combination is not something I’d wear on a normal lazy day at home, but I put it on this morning, hoping for this exact reaction.

“My beautiful little captive. Hmm. What shall I do with you?”

Bending to remove my panties, I shiver at being so exposed in front of someone so dangerous. A real killer. The thought should be decidedly arousal-killing, except it causes wetness to pool between my thighs.

The moment I’m naked, Wyatt grabs my neck again, this time squeezing a little harder. Pushing his other hand between my legs, his smirk widens as he realizes how wet I am. “You like this, cupcake? You like it when I’m rough with you?”

When I open my mouth to respond, Wyatt plunges his tongue inside in a claiming, ferocious kiss.

Sliding his hand from my neck to my hair, he holds me in place while his fingers move around my dripping pussy.

Pushing inside, he strokes my G-spot until I’m moaning into his mouth, then retreats to tease my clit.

With one finger on each side, he moves up and down, his strokes so powerful they border on pain.

Lightheaded from the kiss, I can only whimper as I rapidly approach my climax, only to have Wyatt move his hand away when I’m ready to tip over.